


Ceirin's Travels

by caffeinatedmusing



Series: Adventures of an Altmer Rogue [3]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Action/Adventure, Altmer - Freeform, Gen, a tamriel travelogue of sorts, various relationships - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-30
Updated: 2017-11-27
Packaged: 2018-06-05 08:46:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6698002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caffeinatedmusing/pseuds/caffeinatedmusing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vagabond to Dragonborn. Wayward thief to Guild Master. Scared and alone to fearless adventurer extraordinaire. Ceirin's had a long road to get to where he is. This is what came before.<br/>Prequel of sorts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Valenwood

Ceirin couldn't relax until the ship reached the open sea. All day he had kept a nervous eye on the visible shoreline of Summerset as they had slid past bays, ports, and docks, all of which were too close to home for his comfort.

But once they left the Summerset Isles behind, the distant green smudge of Valenwood became his sole focus. Gulls wheeled and dove in to land on the mast or the rails from time to time. He paid the annoying birds no mind as he leaned out and watched the clear turquoise water slide beneath the ship. A warm breeze blew his hair out of his eyes and ruffled the back of his shirt as he watched the distant shoreline grow on the horizon.

They made port at Greenheart just after sunset. A favorable wind and smooth seas had made the trip go faster than the young rogue had anticipated. Which was all for the better. The sooner he hit the ground and hid in the crowd, the safer he would feel. 

They docked and Ceirin had time to go to shore and get some real food while part of the cargo was being offloaded and new cargo was being brought onboard. 

It was close to midnight by the time they got back underway. Ceirin watched the stars, identifying constellations from memory, during the hour it took them to follow the coast north to Woodhearth, where the process repeated itself. He eventually fell asleep, huddled against some crates. He woke to one of the crewmen shaking him roughly to tell him they’d reached Falinesti. End of the line.

It was early in the morning, a few hours past sunrise. The docks were already active. All around him there were Bosmer at his shoulder height or lower, Argonians, a few other Altmer, and one orc, laboring to get crates stashed and ropes coiled. Orders were barked in several languages and people ran back and forth. At one end of the pier, what looked like a father and daughter were fishing. Packs of scrawny, dirty children ducked and raced in and around all of it, picking up odd chores for coin, grifting, or running messages. There were also a few stray dogs. The odors of tar, fish, and sweat were overwhelming. 

Beyond the dock, the towering tree city of graht-oaks swayed and shifted under the rising sun.

Ceirin held his head up, his shoulders tight, while he tried not to stare. 

The humidity was less than it had been further south, but it still made his shirt stick to him. He hoisted his pack, took a deep breath, and stepped off the gangplank. 

_The mainland._

He had never traveled this far. Hopefully, if he kept heading north, he could find a place to stay without word getting back to his parents.

Turning to follow the signposts, he headed for the local Inn to see about breakfast and maybe about some directions. He had no idea where to go next.

His hand dropped to grab the child’s as it fished at his pocket. The little bosmer squealed and he released the kid with a smirk before anyone could come to the rascals defense. _Pickpockets._

He should have known.

A few minutes later he found his way up to the Inn, the aroma of fried sausages and eggs leading the way. 

A hearty breakfast, a map, and some advice later, and he was on his way; following the road northeast.


	2. Welcome to the Jungle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ceirin encounters some of the downsides to traveling alone. This is harder than he thought it would be...

Reading about the forests of Valenwood for his History of Tamriel class lecture series had not prepared him for the reality of traveling through them. Animals snuffled and hooted in the canopy overhead. Insects buzzed. The heat was oppressive.

He tried to stay on the road. It was harder than it should have been in places. Made of crushed gravel or packed earth, lined with drainage and irrigation channels, and overgrown with thick leafy underbrush, there were points where he was sure it would have vanished into the jungle entirely in a single season if it had not been for the Thalmor military coming through and clearing on a regular schedule.

The local Bosmer favored footpaths that led up over branches and vanished into the canopy, so stealthy and surefooted that only someone raised to it could be truly comfortable in navigating that way. 

He saw hunters on several occasions, alone or in small groups. He passed by a few small scattered villages. 

Camping was a nightmare. Torrential thunderstorms came up, usually in the late afternoons, darkening the sky to near night save for the blinding flashes of lightening. Peals of thunder shook the forest and the rain drowned out all sound save for that. The only good thing about it was that it finished as quickly as it started, leaving the forest to steam under the reappearing sun, droplets falling from the leaves to catch the light with diamond brilliance. 

Ceirin huddled in the center of the tent during those storms, unable to sleep, slapping at the mosquitoes that somehow got in. _How did people live out here?_ He missed the cool tile floors of home, the breezy halls, and his soft bed. Clean dry clothes and good food. Of having a chilled glass of wine out on the veranda overlooking the garden. Even that Inn in Falinesti, while _different_ , had seemed clean and homey enough.

His feet hurt, and when he pulled off his wet boots, he could see they were shriveled and blistered.

His clothes were soaked, with sweat when the sun was out, with rain the rest of the time.

The water out of the canteen tasted stale. 

His food was starting to spoil. Someone magically gifted could have put a cold spell on it to make it last, but he…well, it wasn’t an option.

_And the sound the trees made as they moved around._

No sooner had he packed up and set out on the third day, than he found himself sharing the road with a squad of Thalmor soldiers. He ducked his head, wishing his hair was longer, or that he had a beard. Anything to help disguise his face. He needn’t have bothered. The soldiers were heading to Falinesti, to go home on leave. Their attention was on getting there and they paid no heed to one lone, disheveled altmer passing them in the other direction.

He was dizzy by midday, sweat sliding down his sides and soaking the back of his shirt, his soft riding boots steam-cooking his throbbing feet; the blisters rubbed through and bleeding. The mosquito bites he’d suffered either itched or hurt. His skin felt hot and tight from sunburn. The canteen he’d packed had seemed overlarge at the time, but he was already close to running out. He made camp early and slept late, in spite of the mosquitoes whining in his ear.

It rained again.

And all of the next day. 

He had no choice but to bundle up all his wet gear and try to keep going. Slogging through the puddles, mud sucking at his boots, he began to feel chilled. His body ached. Screaming curses at the weather and at the troop of monkeys that spent hours harassing him from the trees, he was sure this was the gods way of punishing him. 

By the end of the day, he had to throw out the now- slimy meat jerky and musty bread he’d packed. The dried fruit still seemed ok. He went to bed hungry.

As much as he wanted to quit and go home, there was nothing there for him but a lifetime of misery. At least this, no matter how bad, could not last forever.

The day after that he had to admit he was sick. Fever and chills, achy, and exhausted, he moved at a slower pace, trying to save energy. Until he came to a wash out. The heavy rains had flooded a stream until it swept up over the road, muddy swirling water frothing with debris. 

_No._ Tears stung his eyes. He sat down on a boulder by the side of the road and held his head in his hands. He couldn’t do this. He needed to keep going. But what if….

He had no choice. He didn’t dare try to find his way through the jungle. And he didn’t have enough food and water to last more than another day or two. He needed to find a village, or another group of travelers. He wondered if it was bad food that was making him feel so rotten. He picked up a fallen branch from the side of the road and prodded into the water, testing the depth. 

Not too bad. Maybe chest deep? If the current wasn’t too strong…

He pulled off his boots and socks, which were soaked through anyhow, rolled up his pants, and tightened his pack.  
Wincing at the sharp gravel underfoot, he inched forward a step at a time, testing out ahead with the pole. 

It went well, right up until the pole snagged on something and then the water tugged it out of his hands. 

Panic flooded hot through his belly. Holding his arms out for balance, he probed forward with one foot as the water surged and pushed against him. One step. Then another step. Then he turned his ankle on a loose stone and stumbled. 

The next step went deeper, and his balance thrown off, Ceirin pitched over sideways into the churning water.

He washed up a short distance away, battered and drenched. 

Scrambling to get up on the bank, he stumbled, barefoot, following the current back to the road. His boots were lost. When the adrenaline wore off, he was so cold his teeth were chattering, though he was dimly aware it was still muggy outside.

He made it maybe half a mile before he collapsed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ugh. This dumb elf baby doesn't know how to read distance on a map yet, or what kinds of things to bring with while hiking through wilderness. And I think its possible to be homesick even if you didn't really like your home....comfort zones being what they are and all that. Next up, some culture shock.


	3. Welcome to the Jungle II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ceirin gets some help from a family of Bosmer....until some of the more extreme aspects of their culture send him on his way.

_What happened?_ Ceirin cracked his eyes open.

Pale early dawn light showed him he was indoors; shelves held a lantern, bottles, plates and mugs. He was wearing a light pair of cloth trousers that tied at the waist. No shirt, his feet were bare. He blushed, mortified that someone had to have bathed and dressed him after his fever had broken. 

He was on a broad swath of fabric tied at each end to posts. It was comfortable enough, even if it swayed whenever he moved. No wonder he’d felt like he was in the air.

The attempt at sitting up nearly dumped him over onto the floor and left him spread-eagled and clutching at the edges of the thing in order to balance.

Light laughter drew his attention to the door, where a petite young bosmer woman with warm brown skin and a mass of dark brown curls past her shoulders leaned against the door frame and witnessed his predicament. 

“Here, hold still a moment.” She pushed away from the door and moved to hold the hammock steady so he could turn and sit up. 

Once his feet where on the floor, she helped him to stand. There was a whirling moment of dizziness. He clenched his teeth until it passed.

“Y’ffre, you’re tall.” 

Ceirin frowned. Well, compared to her….but still.

“I’m not so sure you should be up and about just yet. You only woke up yesterday for the first time.”

“How long have I ….?”

“Two weeks, give or take a few days. My da and brother found you face down in the road on their way home from hunting. You’re lucky they hadn’t caught more than a monkey that day or they wouldn’t have been able to carry you back.” She grinned.

“I am thankful for the help.” 

“I’m Areli. What do we call you?”

“Ceirindril. Ceirin, for short.” He shifted his bare toes on the floor mat, shrugging. 

The slightly awkward silence was broken by Ceirin’s stomach growling to remind him it was empty. His face went hot with embarrassment. 

Areli laughed again.

“Let’s get you something to eat.” She went back to lift her basket and gestured for him to follow.

The doorway opened to a main room with a hearth, seating, and cooking areas. An older bosmer man and woman looked up from the food they were preparing. 

He’d been sleeping in what amounted to a storage area. The house wasn’t large.

Areli shared the space with her parents and her twin brother, who was out checking traps. Ceirin looked around while he ate. The structure was wooden, but appeared to have grown rather than to have been built. Gauzy fabric hangings covered the doorways and windows. The place was humble, clean, and there was a warmth to it that made it comfortable.

Their meal was thin pancakes made from whipped eggs diluted with milk, wrapped around spiced shredded goat meat. There was also a plate of fried grasshoppers and a thick drink made from fermented milk, both of which he politely declined.

In the small yard below, a remaining pair of goats and some chickens wandered freely. It appeared that several families lived here together. He could see a few other homes tucked back into the branches and foliage of the surrounding forest.

“You’re not a deserter are you?” Tanir had a bluntness to him that the rogue found startling.

“Da!” Areli smacked her father’s arm.

“N-No.” Ceirin hadn’t thought about being mistaken for Thalmor. “I am not with the military.” 

“So,” Areli began. “How long have you been traveling?”

Ceirin figured her for talkative. He worried his lip for a moment while he tried to decide how honest he wanted to be. No reason to go pouring his life story out to strangers.

“Nearly a month now.” That was close enough without giving away details.

“When did you run out of repellant?” 

“I beg your pardon?”

Tanir chuckled and shook his head. “They send them out dumber every time.”

Her mother, Vylna, clucked her tongue and turned to Ceirin, her expression serious. “Bug repellant. So you don’t get the blood sickness.”

Areli jumped up to clear her plate. While she was near the cabinets, she rummaged for something and came back cradling a small jar of strong smelling substance. She rubbed a bit into her own arm, so he could see how it melted into her skin and left behind a slightly greasy sheen along with its pungent scent. 

“We all wear it.” Vylna nodded approvingly. “You bathe, then slather that on all over, then dress. If you add some clay, it helps protect against sun, too.”

“The innkeeper did try to sell me something. It did not smell like this.” He rubbed a small amount between his thumb and forefinger, sniffing cautiously. This salve had strong medicinal odor, but was not unpleasant. 

“Trying to swindle you with the old stuff.” Tanir grunted. 

When Ceirin looked confused he elaborated.

“Main ingredient is rendered fat. You don’t use it up, it goes rancid.”

Ceirin felt his face warm at how he had been treated. And at his own ignorance.

Outside, it had started raining again.

He pushed the rest of his food away, appetite fading in the wake of an overwhelming sense of being in over his head. _Would it be like this everywhere?_

He stayed in their house until he was strong enough to start traveling again. In that time, he asked as many questions as he could. 

Tanir and his son, Vildir, showed him how to tie a snare to catch rabbits and how to recognize the poisonous snakes from the harmless ones.

Areli taught him how to mix up the bug repellant. He was surprised to find out that they traded for plant ingredients from outside Valenwood. The ground up dried leaves were boiled down in the fat mixture and then strained. It was smelly work, but his end result wasn’t terrible, even if the consistency wasn’t anywhere near as fine. They used the extra to treat his camping supplies to be more waterproof.

He went out hunting with Vildir and Areli and admired how silent the twins could be; they tried to coach him a bit but his stealth skills were city based, meant for stone, not sticks.

He also found out that he had chosen the rainy season to start his trip, a time when most folks stayed closer to home on account of the bad weather.

The more information they shared, the more his mood darkened.

“That's rude. You Altmer all get off that boat for the first time looking just the same.” Areli tried to explain when she caught him muttering something about how ‘flaky and untrustworthy’ bosmer were. 

“How so?” He demanded.

“Like you’ve got a steel rod up your ass all the way where your spine ought to be. Too proud to learn anything from anyone. So the locals, they just have a bit of fun with it. That innkeeper probably considered it an investment tactic. You go out there, and three days later you’re running back into town crying for a comfy bed and a nice bath, so he gets more of your coin.”

Ceirin rubbed the bridge of his nose, opened his mouth to argue, and then sighed. She did have a point. 

“I am sorry. I didn’t mean to sound like I was raised on Thalmor propaganda. I mean, I was, but that doesn’t excuse it. It’s why I left.”

"I thought you were trying to learn better. That’s something.”

He spent his extra time resting while he could.

One night he was lounging in his hammock, dozing lightly, when Areli woke him.

“I know you wanted to wait until Vildir got back to say goodbye and be on your way, but, well, we have…a predicament.” Her manner was agitated.

Swinging his legs around, Ceirin turned to face her and found Vildir in the doorway, looking pale.

“…Has something happened?”

Areli looked away and then at her brother, who stared at the floor, arms over his chest.

“Vildir was attacked while he was out. He didn’t mean to do it, but…he killed his attacker. And it took him two days to get back…” She flapped her arms helplessly.

“I don’t understand.”

“We have to have the feast tonight or I’ll be out of time.” Vildir’s voice was full of dark humor. "The others will help."

“I just don’t think you... You’re not Bosmer; the Green Pact doesn’t apply to you. But, you’re also our guest, and we don’t want you to think we’re kicking you out…it's just...” Areli’s voice was getting higher. 

“...The Green Pact?....Oh! Gods…You have to…” Ceirin felt a wave of revulsion sweep through him as the impact of what was about to happen hit him. He stared at them. “..Sorry? Ah, I’ll go.” 

The twins helped him pack. It was hasty and all three of them were anxious, but they got it done and Areli agreed to walk him back to the road. 

His last look back revealed the silhouette of Vildir and his father lifting and carrying the body to the outdoor table where they butchered their food.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm trying to show the start of some character growth in Ceirin...He was raised in a pro Thalmor household, after all, and that had to have some effect on his views growing up. His only information on other cultures and races would have been presented to him through that lens. He's also not in a great place mentally/emotionally at this stage. I don't know how well I'm showing that? I also wanted a bosmer family that were followers of the pact, because most bosmer I've read about, it's never mentioned, even though it's still a part of their culture. The house being wood, a lot of the artwork shows structures in the trees or like, knots or burls in the wood that the elves could live inside. I think they would be allowed to take advantage of a naturally occurring thing as long as it did not harm the tree. The fermented milk drink would be like kefir or a drinkable plain yogurt, not alcoholic.


	4. Cyrodiil

He spent the better part of the next year exploring towns and cities all around Valenwood, even ran into the twins once again and the three of them proceeded to find the kind of fun and trouble that only three young mer can. But after being stopped and searched by a Thalmor patrol on suspicion of thievery, he figured it was high past time to move on. 

He said farewell to his friends and crossed the border into Cyrodiil in the company of a Khajiit caravan. 

Originally out of Corinth, in Elsweyr, they spent the entire year on the road, traveling between cities up through the Empire in a circuit until they headed back down to their home. 

Ceirin balked at the idea of being on the open road for so long. Part of him envied their ability to find home wherever they happened to be.

They had met up on the road just south of Arenthia under threat of a bandit attack. Seeing that he could fight, they had offered to pay him to stay on a while and supplement their guard. At least until they got to the next city.

Raised on the stereotype of the vagabond criminal, Ceirin warmed to the gregarious creatures, despite their differences. They were, in some respects, kindred spirits. 

He helped with the chores and loading the wagons. In the evenings he did what he could to help set up camp. His muscles strained and burned under the unfamiliar labor, his hands becoming chapped and rough. 

It wasn’t all work, however. It was company on the road; conversation and tales to make the miles fall away all the faster. It was laughter and playing games of pounce tag with the three half grown kittens who had accompanied their parents for the first time this year. It was the luxury of reading by firelight without fear of being attacked. It was learning to relax a little bit.

Hot sun and gentle breezes accompanied them on their way. The inland was sheltered from the winds that blew off the ocean; the heat could be stifling on still days under the canopy of thick foliage. At least the humidity had lessened.

The road on the Valenwood side was packed earth and gravel with the occasional stone bridge and fewer signs. Across the border into Cyrodiil, it became cobblestones with fenced in rails and regular mile markers. The carts clattered over the cobbles, making it so voices had to be raised to carry a conversation. 

The forests gave way to wheat fields, orchards as far as the eye could see, and low rolling hills dotted with houses. The vistas were breathtaking and Ceirin wondered why his own people, with their supposedly profound appreciation for beauty and art, didn’t flock here to paint landscapes of this place. The light alone... He could sketch a bit, enough for the drawings of plants that his mother had taught him, but nothing to do this justice. He didn’t have the patience.

They parted ways in Skingrad; the Khajiit had a market to get to outside the Imperial City and the rogue had yet to figure out exactly where he was heading other than just north.

Ceirin stayed for a while. He had to reorient himself to high stone walls and narrow streets after all that _green_. He got caught up on good food, especially vegetables, and better wine, current events, and even schmoozed his way into a few high class parties. He had never been around humans before. They were interesting. Short and short lived, they still accomplished so much. They could discuss anything from poetry to war to astronomy.

Things were going well, until he had too much to drink at a soiree one night and got into an argument with the host’s son about the 'benefits' of their treaty with the Aldmeri Dominion. 

He was ‘escorted’ out, sometime after raised voices drew too much attention but before fists could start to fly. 

Walking back to his room, he got hassled by some guards who very much came across as looking for an excuse. He tried to keep just far enough back to keep them from smelling the alcohol on his breath. It backfired and he ended up with a black eye, and the bruises from several boots on his chest and legs. That was after he had paid the fine.

He packed up and headed out the next morning, hungover and resentful. He picked a few locks and a few pockets on his way out of town to even the odds. 

Skingrad, as it turned out, was a little _too close_ to home. 

He hiked north until he found a village with a suitably scruffy air too it. Sure enough, he was able to sell his ‘acquired’ items with no problem. He took a job as the apothecary’s apprentice for the winter months. It wasn’t much but it was a room and food and a bit of coin. He learned to get used to his hands and feet being cold all the time, to his breath steaming, to huddling around the fire, to runny noses and chapped lips. 

There was an old saying; familiarity breeds contempt. It was certainly proving true; come the thaw of spring, he was back out on the road.

Sometimes he hitched rides on the backs of passing wagons, or slept in barns, not always with the owner’s permission or knowledge.

He landed in Bruma just as the weather was warming into summer.


	5. Bruma and Parts Beyond

Ceirin paused just past the gate to adjust the collar of his coat before blowing on his fingers for warmth.The air this high in the foothills was chilly and dry, but otherwise, he didn’t have anything to complain about, aside from running low on funds and still not really knowing where he was headed. 

Bruma was perched up in the highlands leading into the Jerall mountains. It commanded spectacular and defensive views of the surrounding countryside. The city was set up to be the last stop before people and goods made their way to any number of points beyond. The markets were crowded, the inns were full, and the shops and taverns catered to a wide range of tastes. The road up from the south had a steady stream of traffic in both directions. 

Ceirin was considering making the trip west into Highrock and then maybe Hammerfell. As long as he was on the continent, he felt should try and see it all. But it was always a matter of coin versus supplies. He’d almost walked through the already -much -repaired boots he had and he wasn’t set up for the cold of the mountains. He’d need new gear if he were going to survive it. And probably a guide. Traveling the roads was one thing, but heading off into the wilderness alone was another. As wary as he was of giving away his inexperience, even he was ready to admit that mountains were quite literally over his head.

He found lodging at a hostel near the Jerall Gate and set about finding out where the pick pockets and fences did their work. That took a bit more effort. The people were less open and friendly to a strange Altmer here. He had to be more cautious of the guards. 

The population in Bruma was largely Imperial mixed in equal measure with many Nords who had yet to adopt Imperial culture although there were also Bretons, and Orcs. More diversity could be found in the people who came through to trade. When he had studied Skyrim in his classes, Ceirin had wondered about the descriptions of the Nords and how much of it had been propaganda; barbarians, unwashed and unkempt. Pagans who championed a false god.

The few he had seen before arriving in Bruma, who he had known to be Nord, in any case, had all been dressed in Imperial styles, speaking with Imperial accents and entirely undifferentiated to his eye without having it pointed out to him. Sometimes the names were a give away. But sometimes not. He couldn’t see where the exaggerations had come from.

Here, this far North, the opposite was true. Imperial soldiers wore their hair longer, dressed in wolf and bear hides for warmth while they patrolled the city walls. Some wore full beards as well. The Nords here stood up to the stories though, tall with piercing eyes used to squinting into the glare off the snow fields up in the mountains. They favored large amounts of leather and fur in their clothing along with bold streaks of facepaint. They seemed to bask in his fearful reaction to the appearance they had cultivated.

And they did not like him at all. And since he sought to avoid trouble with them, he tried to skirt neighborhoods and establishments were they congregated in any numbers.

The city was laid out in concentric rings that snaked up to the top. The castle at the crest of the foothill was visible from pretty much anywhere in the city; its shadow fell across the alley where Ceirin finally found a fence who didn’t turn and spit at the sight of him.

He sold a few trinkets he had picked up. The shifty orc gave him less coin than he was expecting, but given the difficulty he’d had so far, he couldn’t pretend to be surprised. Nor could he complain. The sword hanging at the orcs hip had a well- worn grip and was of better quality than the one he carried. 

When asked about gear and guides into the mountains, the orc laughed. Grudgingly, Ceirin gave him back a few coins. He got the name of a tavern where he could supposedly find both. Or get his ass kicked. He wasn’t too sure with how the orc had walked off still chortling.

When he arrived, he had to jump out of the way to avoid the man who came flying out through the doors as if he had been thrown. Curses, shouts and the sound of breaking glass came from inside. Ceirin looked around for sign of the guards. A ruckus like this would not have gone unnoticed back home. Or tolerated. Here, no one seemed to care. The fellow who had been thrown heaved himself up out of the gutter and charged right back in.

Ceirin paused a moment to see if anything else came flying out. When it sounded as things were quieting down, he steeled his nerves and pushed through the doors.

The place was resetting after the row. The heavyset bearded man lay passed out and bleeding on the floor. The victor, an orc woman, was celebrating her win by tossing back drinks bought for her by the crowd. A small group, huddled in an alcove, were betting on a pair of contestants throwing knives at points on a tattered and much abused map. A gray haired woman sat with her filthy booted feet up on a table while she spit polished her gear. A man who came in just behind Ceirin was dragging a bleating goat on a lead. They went straight through and vanished, presumably out a rear door. 

It took careful maneuvering to work his way through the crowd to the counter. A massive Nord shouldered him hard enough to stagger. Without even thinking, Ceirins hand dropped low and swept up the coin pouch he’d glimpsed under the Nords cloak. He ignored the insult he heard whispered under the man’s breath. 

The bartender shook his head when Ceirin asked about the guide, then pointed to wear the unconscious man was being dragged back out into the street.

This was going to be harder than he had assumed.

A few hours later, the man had sobered up enough to hash out a rough deal to take Ceirin as far as Elinhir by way of Falkreath to resupply. He had been planning to leave the next morning, but the guide insisted they leave immediately. As they walked through the streets, Ceirin spotted a wanted poster tacked to beam with the guides likeness on it, wanted for smuggling and treason. Nearby was another with his own face printed on it, wanted for theft. 

“What did you do? He hissed, voice low so as not to attract attention from passersby.

“What did I do? What did _you_ do, elf?” Came the hoarse reply.

Ceirin sneered and pulled his hood up to help hide his face. By mutual unspoken agreement, they hastened their pace.

They had almost made it to the gate when a guard did a double take. One shout had them both breaking into a dead run. Beyond the gate lay an open stretch of road, rising up into rocky cliffs and dark evergreens. The road narrowed where it headed up into the rocks and disappeared over a rise. If they could make it past that, they might lose their pursuers. It depended on how badly the guards wanted them. If they could make it across the border, they’d be Skyrim’s problem.

During the ensuing chase, Ceirin kept looking back over his shoulder. The Nord cursed and screamed threats at the guards and then, to make matters worse, drew his bow and shot one of them, laughing all the while. Vollies of arrows began to descend as archers from the walls returned fire. Cursing and skidding in the loose gravel, Ceirin lunged ahead, doing his best to duck and weave in order to not get shot. The guide didn’t seem to care. He jumped up on top of a boulder and screamed a few choice final insults before hopping down again and dragging Ceirin by the collar down the road behind the trees to cover.

Panting, they hid up in some rocks just off the road to see if they were being followed. 

“Huh. Would have thought for sure they’d want to come and get me.” The Nord took a moment to resettle the straps of his pack. His grin showed yellowed teeth behind the abundance of facial hair.

Ceirin, wide eyed, risked peeping out around the boulders to check. A few guards were indeed picking their way up the scree slope towards them, but they were slow and careful in their searching, seemingly in no hurry to run their quarry down. The rogue wondered what they were waiting for.

“Are you trying to get us both killed?!” 

“Killed? Ha! Those Imperial dogs haven’t got the talent or the balls. Besides, this just makes it more fun.”

“Your idea of fun leaves a lot to be desired. We better move before they get here. It will be dark soon and the sooner we make the border, the better.” 

Ceirin had made up his mind that he would fire his ‘guide’ as soon as they reached Falkreath. The man was insane. He’d be better off alone at this rate.

They found the reason the guards were in no hurry about three hours later when they came upon the rock fall. The entire trail was blocked and any attempt to climb over or dig through would have taken more equipment, time, and manpower than the two of them could supply. 

“Huh. This wasn’t here the last time.”

“You don’t say.” Ceirin’s tone was pure sarcasm and anger. “We can’t go back. They’ll kill us thanks to your little stunt!” 

“I don’t aim to. Come on, elf, if you’re not too delicate. I know another route.”

Two days later, they crossed the border under cover of darkness, one new moon leaving the sky darker and the stars blazing. The wind was cold but the weather fair. There had been no sign of their pursuers. Footsore and exhausted, Ceirin stumbled along behind his guide, who showed no sign of tiring.

They finally made camp just as the moon was setting. They had about five hours until sunrise at which point they would continue on. The Nord had pointed out that Falkreath had an inn, but it wouldn’t do them any good if word of their flight reached the Jarl first.

Ceirin was asleep almost as soon as he had crawled into his bedroll, hard rocky ground be damned. His dreams were as rough as the terrain.

 _Screams and shouts, the clang of weapons and the heavy tramp of hooves and booted feet, the flash and blaze of fire. A horse whinnied._ An arrow tore through the tent fabric to thunk into ground next him. 

He woke to chaos.

Scrambling up, he ducked out of the tent to just in time to see his Nord companion draw a sword and attack an armed man in imperial armor.

Ceirin’s first thought was that the guards from Bruma had caught up to them. He grabbed his blade and his pack and tried to run for the shelter of some trees, only to draw up short when another group came screaming out from them, these dressed in leather and some kind of blue emblem he didn’t recognize. _Not guards. This was something else._

His guide defeated the man he had been fighting only to be cut down in turn by a rider on horseback who had come out from the treeline at a dead gallup. The sword flashed in the pale light of dawn; visible now where the sky above the mountain peaks had begun to lighten. The blood spray was dark by contrast.

He heard an ungodly noise, such that it echoed off the surrounding cliffs before it was cut off. Another arrow flashed past, making him flinch. Men lay dead or dying all around.

He ducked past someone and parried a blow, still trying to figure out what in all Oblivion was going on and what direction he could run to get away, when something struck him from behind and pitched him face first into the snow and darkness.


	6. Helgen

Everything hurt. Ceirin didn’t want to open his eyes or even to be awake, seeking to slide back into unconsciousness, but the jostling, and a whinging overloud voice nearby wouldn’t let him. Grudgingly, he squinted into the blinding sunlight reflecting off snow where it shone between the trees. 

_…Snow? When had that happened?_

Flakes still drifted in the air, even as blue sky showed through the sparse tufts of leftover cloud, setting it all to sparkle.

Forcing a deeper breath in past aching ribs, he sat up a bit and winced when his neck cracked, protesting the uncomfortable position he’d been slouched in for so long. His head was pounding. There was a bad taste in his mouth and he might have willingly killed someone for a drink of water.

A cheerful blond Nord, for all that he was smeared with soot and blood and sporting dark bruises, sat across from him. He was talking to another man, the source of the whining voice that had awakened him.

Ceirin shifted a bit, testing the bonds around his wrists. Tight. _Damn_. The cold air bit at him as the cart rounded a bend and came out from the shelter of the tress. All his things were gone, even his boots. He’d been stripped down to his shirt and pants. No money, no weapon, no lock picks, no place to run or hide. And no way to survive even if he managed to recover any of those things. Which meant, he’d have to talk his way out of this… _whatever this was_. What he needed now was information.

He looked around at his fellow cart –mates with more interest. 

The man immediately to his right was not only bound but gagged as well. He had also been allowed to retain his armor and a heavy cloak. An important personage, then. But with the gag, talking was off the table. Then there was the whiner, a filthy and underfed horse thief reeking of desperation and bad decisions. Like Ceirin, he had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. He turned out to be useful as he cringed and pleaded about not being a part of the rebellion.

 _Rebellion? Stormcloaks?_ Ceirin thought again of the blue emblems he had seen. The same blue as the armor of both these Nord soldiers; Ralof, and Ulfric, who was apparently their commander. No luck then. Maybe when they got to wherever they were going…

_What the fuck have I walked into this time?_

As they pulled into the little walled town, Ceirin instinctively ducked his head at the sight of dark robed altmer on horseback talking to the Imperial general. His confusion grew. _Thalmor? Here?_ He lost the hope then that he would be getting out of this. Cold fear ebbed the adrenaline that had been keeping him functional until then. By the time they were hauled off the cart and ordered to stand, his knees gave out and he had to lean against the cart for a moment to steady himself. For their part, the Stormcloaks showed great bravado. And then it was his turn. 

“You… You’re not on the list.” The Imperial sounded confused as he squinted, far sighted, to double check the parchment in hand. 

There was something open about the young human soldiers face, as though under better circumstances he would have been friendly and approachable. Someone Ceirin could have asked for help. _Here goes nothing…_

“It must be a mistake... ?“ Ceirin swallowed against his dry mouth, pushing the panic down for just a bit longer “I was just trying to cross through to Highrock and then to Hammerfell. The guide said it was the best way and we could apply for papers once we got there…?” 

He saw sympathy flash across the man’s face.

 _Play it stupid and frightened. Maybe they’ll feel sorry for you…find you someone to talk to. I’d even take jail time right now._ Fear wasn’t an act. His heart was hammering. He bit his lip to keep from either crying or throwing up while the soldier, Hadvar, called his superior over to discuss it. His body hadn’t quite decided between those, yet.

“He goes to the block with the others.” 

Struck dumb by the sheer unfairness of it, Ceirin stumbled when his legs instinctively locked up against the hands shoving him forward. _That horse thief might have had a chance if only he hadn’t run in a straight line…or if I had used that distraction to go in another direction. Too late now._

The sound of the headsman’s axe descending was a physical thing, making him flinch. He was grabbed and dragged forward again, legs kicked out from under him, forcing him to kneel. The hot iron smell of blood gagged him and he fought not to notice how wet and warm the rough block was under his cheek were the previous occupant had bled out before the still twitching body had been dragged off to the side. He canted his gaze skyward to keep the head in the bucket below him, but so so close, out of his peripheral vision.

There was a noise, some confusion, more discussion. Ceirin lifted his head and got shoved back down. 

And then everything went flying as something impossibly loud landed and sent them all tumbling. The sky darkened. When Ceirin was next able to raise his head, he found himself staring up into the hateful orange glare of an enormous black dragon. 

And then everything around him was burning.


End file.
